The Hardest of Hearts
by vanessacramm
Summary: He just got caught up in how beautiful the knife was, how it shined as it span toward him. He'd never saw such gracefulness before; she was the exception of course. He marveled at the beauty and simplicity of it right before it lodged itself right in his back. Just as his father told him it would. Love has killed him, right there.


It was always in the dead of night. Always. When he was sleeping off the alcohol from the daytime, he'd dream of an ice rink. Clove's favorite place. He would step onto the ice unsure of what was happening then he'd see her dressed in a lacy white gown with her piercing green eyes that he would always call beautiful but she never believed him because she would never fall for lies. Even when he was telling her the truth she wouldn't believe him, couldn't believe him not after what the other boys had said to her. No, she was stronger than that.

He would see her black hair first clashing with the pure white dress she wore he would run to her kiss, hug her, smell her hair always the same smell; Apple cinnamon. He never thought he could love a smell so much but entirely loathe it at the same time. She would hug him back of course, but as soon as he let go the blood would just poor. Drip out of her mouth, her eyes, her nose. it was everywhere. Drenching the white satin like spilt wine. He would try his hardest to save her but it was inevitable. She would choke out her last words, always the same "I loved you, Cato. But look what has happened to us. It's your entire fault. "

Of course it was his fault he let her go to the feast to kill fire girl after she had begged him. He gave in. Oh how he regrets it. He thinks about it all the time. Such a small decision but yet it led him to all this... All this... Grief.

He would tell her to stay with him. Not to leave him so alone as her clutched her corpse for dear life. Tell her how sorry he was but words couldn't exactly tell her how deeply he missed her. He had once been so big and mighty just his father had taught him. He would always say "love is for the weak, love makes you soft, and love stabs you in the back" he had always lived by his word. He never forgot. He never thought he loved this girl not for a moment. When he thought about it he'd always tell himself it was lust. How wrong could he of been.

He had never noticed before how her green eyes would sparkle in the sun, how her long black hair was always straight. Her freckles that she thought were so ugly but he loved to count them as she slept in his warm strong arms.

He would wake up in a sweat after this nightmare. He'd just get up smash the fine china his sister has purchased for decoration. He loved to watch the pieces fly apart on the floor. He had found a visual for his heart after he had seen her lying there on the green grass, with a huge dent in her skull. Watching the life die from her eyes as she died in his arms.

Nothing could stop the tears after he watched the plate smash, they wouldn't stop falling and falling. Finally he stopped the flow long enough to grab a bottle and start to drink, he'd had enough of seeing her. From the flowers in the back yard to the throwing knifes in the training center He'd had enough. He would defy against his own slogan "enough is never enough".

He took the knife and pressed it up against his own skin. The blood seeping against the sliver of the blade. The coolness made him feel at peace. He looked down at the knife just to see her name carved into the hilt. _Clove_ engraved on it with a simple sentence underneath _My Everything_. A birthday present to her from him. She never used it; she told him blood would taint the preciousness of it. He never understood it until now, that once the blood has been spilt it wasn't going to wash away, ever. it taints your soul, your very being. She told him he would be OK after he had killed the boy that tried to hit on Clove. She forgave him of course. He shook it off because that's just what he does. But he would always remember that boy.

What people would do for love. Her definition of love was a knife. He had laughed at this statement first but she explained and after that he understood. She had told him " love is like a knife because it always comes in different forms, different looks. It's beautiful and graceful. It's unexpected and frightening. But it always kills the same".

He guesses he just got caught up in how beautiful the knife was, how it shined as it span toward him. He'd never saw such gracefulness before; she was the exception of course. He marveled at the beauty and simplicity of it right before it lodged itself right in his back. Just as his father told him it would.

Love has killed him, right there. So quick, so painful, but it didn't bother him, No, all he could think of was his precious Clove. It wasn't like in the movies like how you could see the light at the end of the tunnel. He could only see darkness but he never thought of how comforting darkness could be. No nightmares, no memories of the good times just complete black.

He thought of her hair, his bothers eyes even though they were brown, the sparkly new shoes his niece had bought last week, the dog he had as a child. His coat thick and shiny. Then he smelt something it was strong and familiar he finally picked it out it was the smell he missed most.

Apple cinnamon.


End file.
